Everything will get better, they said
by II-AmY-ChaN-II
Summary: It's when you think you're going to die soon that you can sleep the best. When you're past worrying for your future plans. Past every problem - ridiculous, simple problems - you've ever had and you know exactly: Yes, you are indeed going to die.


It's when you think you're going to die soon that you can sleep the best. When you're past worrying for your future plans. Past every problem - ridiculous, simple problems - you've ever had and you know exactly: Yes, you are indeed going to die.

That's when it stops hurting. When you stop caring. When you know, it's over and you can't do a simple thing about it. That's when you live your life in peace for once. When you're able to breathe in everything and experience a sleep, you've never had before because you were always worried about _something_.

Maybe it was your dad's diet. Your best friends lycanthrophy, the fact that you weren't able to save everyone again. That you were responsible for your best friend's every problem. Your father's every problem.

You were the one who killed your mother.

You made your dad's life so much more unbearable and difficult on so many occasions …

You took your best friend with you to search for a dead body. You talked him into coming with you and it was your fault he got bitten, that's it.

You were the one who made all hell breaking loose and because of you so many people died. Students, friends, people you didn't know but who had a life outside your tiny little view.

And school. Maybe you were a straight-A-student - despite your lack of focus - but you were always worried about your next test. Always worried about your inability to concentrate on the right thing and how it affected you sometimes in class.

That's why you took too many of these pills sometimes. Your dad worried because you didn't eat for days at a time - you just forgot, that happens, doesn't it? And you weren't hungry anyway. - and your best friend needed to let you take a breath. Needed to help you calm down again because you weren't human enough to communicate in ways Scott understood. You talked too much, didn't breathe and that's when you worried, that the two people you cared about the most … were worried about you. You didn't want them to. You said it, many times, but they didn't listen to you. They were worried nonetheless.

Look, who's the most human one in our group of friends now, huh, Scott?

You know, you're going to die, you just know. And everything seems somehow pointless. If you die anyway - why even wanting to learn something about the planet you're currently living on? Why wanting to get to know the universe?

It's not like Stiles needs to know this stuff wherever he's going to go.

—*—

"Thanks for waiting, dude", Scott said outside of their chemistry-class. He smiled and clapped him on the shoulder as if wanting to smack the living shit out of him. Like he used to. But Stiles stiffed immediately, of course and he wanted to bang his head immediately – for being that fragile and jumpy because he knew that Scott forgot for a moment. Forgot that Stiles still wasn't used to normal. Being not-possessed and everything. You tended to get a little bit insane while being void, okay? Even though he still didn't have a right to be this incredibly unawesome while his friend seemed to cope just fine.

Stiles smiled weakly, cringing inside at his failed attempts at pretending to be just okay. "Yeah, uh. No problem, you know. I always did that, didn't I?" he murmured because it's what he did nowadays: Talking too quietly for any human to understand. Lucky him, that his best friend was still a werewolf, though.

Scott just shrugged. He eyed him wearily, took his time with watching him carefully up and down. "Yes, you used to. You know that. I know that" he answered. "And I know that you're still not eating properly, do you?" his smile weakened, died on his lips and there it was again. These puppy-dog-eyes full of worry for his best friend but Stiles knew also one thing: He didn't deserve any of it. He shook his head instead, bit his lip and looked down. That's what he also does a lot nowadays. Looking down because he can't bear the look everyone gives him. Like he was the one who died - not Allison or Aiden. Like he was the victim in all of this.

_He wasn't_.

He didn't die - he was the one, who killed everyone. He remembered, he _saw_. And he couldn't do anything.

„Nah, don't worry, I just …", he trailed of, didn't know what he needed to say to convince his friend that he was fine. „You know. Had a hell of a lot to work on, really, catching up in school and everything."

Yes, this sounded like his old self. Good one, Stilinski.

Except Scott - of course - didn't buy it.

He just looked at him, brushed his shoulder again - more gently than before. But he couldn't help himself and flinched anyway. „You know, Stiles. You can talk to me about everything. You're my brother, dude. I don't want you to waste away …", he said. So earnest and calm and serious, it pained Stiles almost physically. If it weren't for Scott or his Dad, he would've done that suicide-thing back a few weeks ago. He would've taken the Katana and killed himself without a second thought because seriously: He's going to die anyway. Soon.

He would talk to Scott, yes, but he couldn't just say something like „When I try to sleep more than 2 hours a day, I kinda still need to scream myself awake again." or „If I try to eat something, it always tasted like ash." or „It's pointless that you saved me, Scott. You should've killed me. Chris should've killed me and everyone would be happier now." or „I see them, when I close my eyes."

That's nothing you can say to your best friend, who was still hurting from the loss of his first love. Still mourning the girl he fell in love with. And who died on the hands of his so-called _brother_.

No, he kind of didn't want to worry Scott more than he already did, so he just said: „Thanks, man, I know", they moved on and Scott let him.

—*—

He came home that day as usual, parked and got out of his old Jeep. His dad's car was there and that was highly unusual.

The sheriff worked always until his late nightshift was over, came home to Stiles going out to school sometimes.

Sometimes, Stiles thought, his father just didn't want to go home earlier because he knew he would find his son a sweating and crying mess – there is only so much a man can take. Stiles understood, of course. Who wants to come home to a view as pathetic as him?

He got on to the front porch and approached the door, opened it.

That was when he heard the voices inside, not the usual tv-crap, screaming or something. Just voices, silently talking.

He couldn't make out any words in the first moment but he knew both voices, so he stood there, quietly, and waited for them to continue.

"Scott told me about it, yesterday, yes", he heard Melissa say. "He said Stiles looks even worse than before" she sighed. If he wouldn't know better, though, he would've thought that Melissa's sigh sounded more like a small and helpless sob but that couldn't be. She never cried and he was the last person in the whole world she would need to cry for.

His heart skipped a beat, though – they talked about him? Why? Oh, okay, skip this, he already knew why. They were worried, even though he handled his problems just fine. They had no right to worry about him when he didn't deserve their pity and caring and constant attention. They had lives themselves, didn't they?

What was it with the people and their constant messing around with his problems. _Guys, just stop it, please, I'm almost eighteen not five. Or eighty-nine for that matter. I do not need your attention._

He heard how his father shuffled and the start of the coffee-machine muffled the next few words of his dad but he understood them anyway. If he wanted this conversation with Melissa - why here? His father knew exactly when he got home everyday. That's how they managed the grocery-shopping and laundry-stuff - they knew when the other was gone or home.

_Dad, seriously. Think before you do something, please. _

"I came home this morning to him sweating all over the couch and turning and screaming, Melissa. I wanted him to rest but he didn't listen", his father sounded like he just lost the biggest battle of his life. Done and utterly helpless. It was Stiles's fault, again. „Melissa, I … I don't know what to do with him. I mean, he is my son and I know about all this stuff but it doesn't help him and I can't help him and I feel like … like when I was with Claudia and she was dying and I couldn't help her or ease the pain and it's- … every time I come home and have to find him in such a state, Mel, I want to talk to him but he doesn't. And he despises a therapist or a psychiatrist."

Stiles would've died a little inside if it wasn't for his soul which was already dead - lucky him. He coughed and blinked and suddenly, there were tears blurring his vision. He rubbed his eyes, still coughing and kicked his shoes away. He didn't know what to do. His dad talked about his mom and he made him feeling that way … again.

What to do, what to do.

Going to the kitchen and pretending to be okay? Being the talkative little smart-ass he was before?

Or going upstairs and cutting his thighs to shreds to try and feel something other than just guilt. He was a guilty little shit and he knew it. And his attempts to easy the pain away weren't that sane, either but he didn't care. It wasn't like his dad or Scott or Melissa or Lydia or even Derek for that matter knew what he was doing to himself to get a little of that humanity back he lost so many weeks ago.

He chose the latter because he didn't need to pretend anything while being in the bathroom and calming himself down from a stressful day at school where he literally sucked at pretending all the time. Even Coach Finstock had eyed him wearily and didn't scream that much while telling him why exactly he thought that Stiles wasn't able to join first line again. Because he looked like shit and hell combined and the Coach didn't think that Lacrosse would help him much with putting on some weight - he did not need that weight, though. He was fine, seriously, just fine. - and just a tiny little gust of wind would knock him down or he would fly away on it and that was why the Coach was afraid of him playing Lacrosse today. Of course Stiles would've preferred to have flown away on that tiny little gust of wind in that moment…

He pretended to not have heard what his father just said and climbed up the stairs, his vision still blurred. He didn't want to hear what else they would talk about - him, of course. Always him. They should focus on themselves, shouldn't they? He wasn't exactly the right boy to bond over and his Dad and Melissa needed to get their shit together and move on. He was okay with them dating - he had said that so many times already because, yes, his dad had loved his mother, still did, but he also was alive and okay and he did need someone. Stiles understood and he wouldn't judge, he would be happy. For both of them of course!

He tried to be as soundless as possible but he sucked at being soundless even though he was tired as hell. His dad had heard him stumbling on the stairs and called his name. "Hey, kiddo! Melissa is there, come on in and say hi!" he didn't sound like he just spit his guts out to Stiles's best friend's mother.

Stiles rubbed at his eyes again. He coughed another time, and stumbled back down the stairs. „Yeah, hey, er-", he smiled weakly, „I didn't want to interrupt so. Hey", he came to a halt at the door to the kitchen and stood in the threshold awkwardly. „How are you, Melissa?"

Melissa just watched him, her expression stoic and serious. If he would've looked close enough, he would've seen the tearstains on her face but he pretended he didn't and looked her straight in the eye. Also pretending to have some courage in his backbone.

"Stiles, when was the last time you slept properly? Or ate an entire meal?"

He flinched and his smile faltered. His dad closed his eyes and occupied himself with the coffee-machine. Which still needed to make the coffee, though, so there wasn't anything useful he could possibly do with a still working coffee-machine.

„Uh. Yeah, I asked first, though", he frowned and lifted his gaze again. „You gonna give me an answer first!"

His dad sighed loudly, „Son, please". They both, Melissa and him, looked at the sheriff immediately. Stiles felt himself blush. „Sorry, but she didn't answer me and I asked first, so." It was childish and probably ridiculous but he couldn't help himself. He needed that time to think of something he could tell her, like, without needing to lie too much. Or without looking like he just lied her straight in the face.

Melissa could always tell when he lied to her or his father or everyone for that matter - she knew him too good for his own wellbeing probably. She always knew, sometimes even before he himself knew, when something was up and he was worse than usual. (Let's be honest here - there was always something wrong with Stiles. Sometimes … it was just a little worse. Like the last few weeks.)

Melissa bit her lip and stood up from her place at the table to approach him.

„I'm fine, Stiles, work is exhausting", she smiled warmly at him, the stoic face almost gone. „Scott always tells me how good you're doing in school, even though you … uh …", she didn't really know what to say, did she?

„Even though I was possessed by a dark spirit which killed one fourth of my friends and a bunch of people I didn't really know, yes. I'm doing good in school", he helped her out and cringed inwardly. His dad looked at him like he expected him to stumble and fall anytime. „I slept just fine today and my eating is nothing for you to worry about. I'm doing good, thank you."

Melissa watched him carefully, too. Somehow, all of this made him angrier than he thought he would be. They didn't need to care for him, he was fine on his own and didn't deserve their constant fussing

„You know, I heard what you guys said before, okay? If you don't want me to listen in to your conversations, you could just go to a restaurant or a coffee-shop or something", he said - maybe a little louder than he intended to but … he fumed. Seriously, he appreciated their concern but he didn't deserve it, okay? Why did they even care for a loud and dumb murderer with so many fucked up problems?

He couldn't bear this anymore and stormed out of the kitchen up to his room, the only place in the whole world where he felt like he belonged. His dad shouted after him, called his name but he didn't listen. Didn't listen to Melissa, who went after his dad and stopped him from following him.  
He knew he was being selfish and stupid but he didn't care.

There was only one thing on his mind right now - relief.

— * —

It was later when someone knocked on his door again, his dad long since gone to work again.

He was already bandaged and had managed half of his economics-essay due to Friday, so, there was no one he would've expected to come … „Who's there?" he coughed.

There was loud crack and Stiles flinched at the sound. „Oi, out there, I still need your name", he called and got behind his bed to grab his bat. Better save than sorry, huh?

This someone seemed to make an attempt to try and open the door but failed. After some badly sounding breaths, finally, the someone remembered to answer.

„It's … it's Derek", and Stiles let his bat go. „I … need some help."

Stiles didn't really needed to be told twice. He stumbled from his bed to the door, all the while thinking about a good enough reason why today needed to suck so much.

What. How could this day get any funnier? First Scott, then Lydia's lack of sarcastic responses, Coach Finstock and his dad and Melissa and now Derek? Seriously. The universe wanted to give him all this crap and be thankful for it but nope. He wasn't. What he was, though, was annoyed. At everything and _everyone_.

What the hell did Derek need? He was a tiny little human with a fragile mind slowly fading away in front of his family and friends. There wasn't much this guilty big bad werewolf could demand from him. He wasn't good enough.

And what was wrong with the window, anyway? Didn't Derek always come through his window like the supernatural being he was?

Gosh, too many questions and none of it made any sense.

He heard the loud ‚thud' outside of his room and opened the door with more energy than he believed he possessed. Hard times required hard work or something on the line maybe. Adrenalin was his new best friend.

"Derek?", he asked, concern filling his voice and making it thick with worry. „Woah, woah, Derek, what happened?"

He couldn't help but shudder at the sight in front of him. Derek just … just lay there, unconscious or … or dead, he didn't know. Possibly dead because there seemed to be more blood on the floor than in Derek's entire body.

He kneeled right beside his friend before he thought twice about it, made what he always did when something like this happened - and it happened quite often for someone as young and as human as him:

„Derek, please don't die", he said and rolled his lycanthropic friend onto his side, taking in the damage done by someone or _something_ he didn't know. „Come on, bud", he fussed with Derek's jacket, his black t-shirt underneath all but clinging to the pearl-white body.

Blood everywhere - on the floor, on himself, on Derek. Derek's blood on his hands.

He bit his lip and scrambled to his feet to get the first-aid-kit out of the bathroom. „Don't move, sourwolf! I'll know", he cried over his shoulder while all but rushing to get the small box.

„Why didn't you heal, idiot? Why are you coming here, for fucks sake. Please, Derek, just … just." He didn't really know what he pleaded for, what he wanted this dumb fool of a guy to do but he talked anyway. It calmed him down, so much. The tension in his body didn't vanish, of course, he still had to do his job to patch up Derek.

He needed to call Scott, Lydia, _anyone_, really.

But first: Derek.

As he came back to stitch up his friend on the floor, he was greeted by the sight of a already sitting Derek – "Hey, what did I say about moving, you idiot!" - who leaned heavily against the wall like he would pass out any second again.

That was probably true, though, because … yes, he looked indeed pale enough for that.

Stiles sucked in his breath, fought down his raising panic and let himself sink next to his friend. "What happened, Derek?" he asked while getting the bandages out of the box.

He watched him carefully, watched the heavy rising and falling of his thorax. The cuts in his face still bleeding, not even trying to heal.

Derek lifted his gaze, looked him straight in the eye. „I just … crossed the path of the devil, Stiles", and Stiles couldn't help but shrink back. Wide-eyed he stared at him.

What. _What did that mean_, for fuck's sake? What did Derek _see_?

Everything became soundless for just a few seconds. For a moment, Stiles didn't think he was able to take another breath without risking to fall apart.

He needed to call Scott, call Chris, Isaac and Alli-, he gulped, … call Lydia and Kira maybe. If there was something loose and after supernatural creatures … every one of his friends needed protection. And if this_ something _was able to hurt Derek that much - how was that even possible? Derek seemed dead countless of times but he healed every single time anyway, what happened?

"You need to heal, Derek", he said instead of voicing his thoughts. "Please, just take off your clothes, I need to stitch that up."

Stiles knew, he would need to be calm. Panic wouldn't help him with anything.

Derek watched him, stared at him but made a pathetic attempt to get his shirt off.

He died to know what Derek went through but there were more important tasks at hand so he concentrated on patching up his friend while fighting the rising panic-attack inside silently. His heart still raced like he just run a hundred-miles per minute and there was a high possibility that Derek knew but he didn't call him out on it and he was more thankful than anything for it.

He worked silently, taking in breath after breath and stitching up the wounds on Derek's body. They looked like they were made by an alpha, the not-healing indicated that much, but he wasn't sure.

It was after a few minutes that he realized that Derek had closed his eyes again, drifting off to sleep.  
He didn't know what to do, so he let him and stood up to clean up the mess his friend had made in his search for rescue.

Just let the pathetic little human handle all the stress, yeah. That's what he was made for, anyway.


End file.
